To the naked eye, it was all going smoothly and I can tell you that all four of our eyes were starkers. Maryellen and I had driven The Beast to David to accomplish numerous tasks, the first and hardest of which was now behind us. The Beast had passed inspection. Well for sure we had to drop some names and pay for a wheel balancing, but the stamped and official document that would allow me to re-register the old Land Cruiser for another year was now in hand and we were off to chore number two. Under the hood of the now certified and approved for driving vehicle, trouble was either lurking or brewing, pick your own cliche.
We managed to get a few more errands run and chores accomplished before the first sign of any problem occurred. It was upon leaving a store named Guerra, which means war, but in this case had no particular significance that I can determine unless my car is a protester, that The Beast refused to start. "You drive, I'll push" was my Johnny Mechanic on the spot solution, "maybe we can jump start it." A couple of the war guys came out to help and by golly and by effort we got it going. ME made a u-turn at the corner and returned to pick me up. Lunch and contemplation of the day's remaining tasks seemed in order so we bee lined to the Italian joint affixed to the Grand National Hotel. Part two of our adventure would occur out of our sight and perhaps, in fact, unseen by anyone at all.
"Back into that space near the door" I said, " it's got a downhill slant that should give us enough roll to jump start again if we need to." "And, " I added, "race the engine hard before you turn the key off."
"I can't," she replied, " If I take my foot off the brake, the car will roll."
"Just put it in neutral and move your left foot off the clutch and onto the brake."
ME did as instructed and roooom rooomed the engine a couple of times before turning it off and hopping out for lunch.
Pause here to consider good pizza.
When we returned to the car I am happy to report it started right up. What I am less thrilled to tell you is that the car was across the parking lot some fifty or sixty feet from where we left it! That no other car had been parked in its path can be viewed as a mite lucky. If, however, you take into account that our very next stop was to renew the car's insurance which had expired, then you can say without argument that this view can now be cranked up to Good Goddammned Lucky! For our part, ME and I just looked at each other with matching expressions of Holy Shit.
To be continued.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
A Brillinat Mind
"Don't! Don't! she kept saying as I called the dog over to the edge of the patio from where I could see a chicken emerging from the coffee plants that border our yard.
"C'mon Babe," I replied, ignoring her protests, "chasing chickens is Gus' favorite thing in life."
I usually listen to my wife because she is wise in the ways of the world. Okay, wise in the ways of the Woowoo World anyway and that special planet includes among its virtues lots of weeeuuuu skills like, for instance, intuition. But here was Gus on the end of his tether, back turned away and oblivious to the encroaching fowl and I thought that he, as the self appointed home protector from the menace of stray cats, other dogs and small birds that linger too long on the bush should be made aware that a big fat enemy was advancing on his turf. Besides that, I was sure this was going to be a laugh riot.
"DOC DON'T!... DON'T! was coming at me in volume as Gus came to my side and I pointed at the fearsome fowl. Of course, pointing doesn't do much for dogs. They mostly just look at your hand and wonder what the hell you're trying to tell them. Gus though, is smarter than the average mutt and on about the third "Look there Gus, there" which I was saying in counterpoint to the rising "Don'ts" in the background, he got the message and saw the chicken.
Here I need to pause a moment, because we humans can do that, pause and reflect before taking action, while dogs when called to arms get right on the job...and tell you that the other end of Gus' tether was truly and stoutly affixed to a water spigot at the side of our house. Had I paused and reflected on that circumstance or had Gus not been the noble family defender that he is, or had either of us, man or dog heeded the pleas of "Don't! Don't" now being directed at us both, well, the outcome would surely have been different.
But then, who would have guessed that a 30 pound pooch could have the strength to actually rip an iron spigot from a concrete wall even if he was traveling at roughly the speed of light? Really, who?
Some of you might be inclined to remind me that there WAS a warning voice throughout the episode that I chose to ignore and that most of you, had you been there, would have advised caution as well. To you I say, oh come on! Have you ever seen a dog chase a chicken? It's hysterical. And besides, he's my dog, he's never actually caught a chicken and he wouldn't know what to do with it if he did. But most of all, let's not forget, the chicken WAS trespassing! It's all the chicken's fault! ... right?
The words I didn't choose to ignore were the "I told you's" that immediately followed. Truth was I couldn't hear them over the chicken screeching, the dog barking and the Niagara Falls that was gushing from the side of my house. My ha ha's turned into oh no's in a split second. In the other half of that second, the chicken disappeared into the coffee plants, the dog got hung up on a bush and it's likely that Woowoo Charly was calling me something I'm glad I couldn't hear. The best laid plans oft gang up on me.
Charly, the chicken and I were now officially distressed. Gus, on the other hand, was a happy fella. He had, after all, successfully done his job.
After that it was all denouement. For those of you who don't know, denouement is a French word that means find the shut off valve, call the plumber, do without water until he gets there the next day and pay attention to your wife when she says,"Don't!
Why is that last part is so hard to remember?
"C'mon Babe," I replied, ignoring her protests, "chasing chickens is Gus' favorite thing in life."
I usually listen to my wife because she is wise in the ways of the world. Okay, wise in the ways of the Woowoo World anyway and that special planet includes among its virtues lots of weeeuuuu skills like, for instance, intuition. But here was Gus on the end of his tether, back turned away and oblivious to the encroaching fowl and I thought that he, as the self appointed home protector from the menace of stray cats, other dogs and small birds that linger too long on the bush should be made aware that a big fat enemy was advancing on his turf. Besides that, I was sure this was going to be a laugh riot.
"DOC DON'T!... DON'T! was coming at me in volume as Gus came to my side and I pointed at the fearsome fowl. Of course, pointing doesn't do much for dogs. They mostly just look at your hand and wonder what the hell you're trying to tell them. Gus though, is smarter than the average mutt and on about the third "Look there Gus, there" which I was saying in counterpoint to the rising "Don'ts" in the background, he got the message and saw the chicken.
Here I need to pause a moment, because we humans can do that, pause and reflect before taking action, while dogs when called to arms get right on the job...and tell you that the other end of Gus' tether was truly and stoutly affixed to a water spigot at the side of our house. Had I paused and reflected on that circumstance or had Gus not been the noble family defender that he is, or had either of us, man or dog heeded the pleas of "Don't! Don't" now being directed at us both, well, the outcome would surely have been different.
But then, who would have guessed that a 30 pound pooch could have the strength to actually rip an iron spigot from a concrete wall even if he was traveling at roughly the speed of light? Really, who?
Some of you might be inclined to remind me that there WAS a warning voice throughout the episode that I chose to ignore and that most of you, had you been there, would have advised caution as well. To you I say, oh come on! Have you ever seen a dog chase a chicken? It's hysterical. And besides, he's my dog, he's never actually caught a chicken and he wouldn't know what to do with it if he did. But most of all, let's not forget, the chicken WAS trespassing! It's all the chicken's fault! ... right?
The words I didn't choose to ignore were the "I told you's" that immediately followed. Truth was I couldn't hear them over the chicken screeching, the dog barking and the Niagara Falls that was gushing from the side of my house. My ha ha's turned into oh no's in a split second. In the other half of that second, the chicken disappeared into the coffee plants, the dog got hung up on a bush and it's likely that Woowoo Charly was calling me something I'm glad I couldn't hear. The best laid plans oft gang up on me.
Charly, the chicken and I were now officially distressed. Gus, on the other hand, was a happy fella. He had, after all, successfully done his job.
After that it was all denouement. For those of you who don't know, denouement is a French word that means find the shut off valve, call the plumber, do without water until he gets there the next day and pay attention to your wife when she says,"Don't!
Why is that last part is so hard to remember?
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Country Club Revisited
Boquete's intrepid trio of golfers, LJ, Woowoo and Yers Truly, set forth in wind and rain to once again brave the wilds of our country club whose name remains a mystery. (There is a sign that says something about a Club Atletico y Social, but we are not sure if that is a name or a description.) We had called ahead to check on the weather and were told it was "esta bien", so we remained undaunted as our windshield wipers tried valiantly to make the highway visible. About halfway to the course, about 45 minutes out, the rain gave way to sunshine and our spirits brightened so we took them out of the bottle and had a slug. Just kidding. We got to the Costa Rican border, made a hard left through the wild and woolly border town and cruised parallel to CR for another 30 minutes or so. We arrived at the club (ha! ha! ha!, I just love saying that... the club) at 3:30 sharp, okay rounded, and found our caddies waiting for us. Ten minutes later we were teeing off and using the horses in the center of the first fairway to give us a sight line to the green. You may find horses in the fairway a bit unusual, but then you probably use lawn mowers to keep your grass trimmed.
I won't, as usual, tell you about the round, because I know how boring it is to people who don't play golf. I won't even tell you about the great shots I hit on holes 2, 5, 7 and 9 which included an excellent chip-in, because you all know I mostly write fiction and wouldn't believe me anyway. I will tell you about the cart lady.
"She's no lady, she's a..." is the punch line to more than one joke. In this case I'm not kidding because the cart lady was a guy, on a bicycle, passing by. He took our money in a serious and forthright manner and set off for the clubhouse on his vintage fat wheeled, no gears bike, for our order of cokes and beers. The cokes were for Woowoo and the caddies. He was back before we had completed the hole, which, if you knew the truth, says more about our tee shots than the speed of the cyclist.
I'm not sure at what point I should mention the principal feature of the golf course, so I'll just do it now and get it out of the way. Golf course descriptions usually range from the lyrical " the flowers at Augusta National remind us all of poetry past and present yadida yadida yadida" to hyperbole that includes best, most, toughest, and meanest, but until now you haven't heard this phrase about your average, run-of-the-mill eighteen holer: The landing strip the runs through the center of the golf course can be used to good advantage. By landing your tee shot there, you can gain an additional fifty yards on the bounce. There is, of course, the danger of hitting the small planes that actually land there and as they all look like the planes used in drug runner movies, this may not be a fortunate circumstance. Pilots and passengers of these aircraft can seldom take a joke.
Apart from the soccer game skirting the eighth hole and the softball game in progress on the ninth fairway, there is not much more to tell. A quick post game Cerveza Panama was had by all, the caddies were paid and we were on our way.
The drive home lacked drama, which is how all drive homes should be unless, of course, like me, you make stuff up. ("Stuff up" is probaly not a great way to end a sentence unless you are cooking a turkey or giving an order, but I'm going with it anyway.)
Upon arriving at LJ's casa, we were greeted by his wife Bonnie who became in contention for wife-of-the -year, okay week, by presenting us with frozen margaritas and a pot of chili. Now, how good is that? I'll tell you how good as that. It almost made me forget my chip-in and the long putt I almost made on six.
Did I tell you about that putt? It was and uphill left to righter with a... Hey! come back here!
I won't, as usual, tell you about the round, because I know how boring it is to people who don't play golf. I won't even tell you about the great shots I hit on holes 2, 5, 7 and 9 which included an excellent chip-in, because you all know I mostly write fiction and wouldn't believe me anyway. I will tell you about the cart lady.
"She's no lady, she's a..." is the punch line to more than one joke. In this case I'm not kidding because the cart lady was a guy, on a bicycle, passing by. He took our money in a serious and forthright manner and set off for the clubhouse on his vintage fat wheeled, no gears bike, for our order of cokes and beers. The cokes were for Woowoo and the caddies. He was back before we had completed the hole, which, if you knew the truth, says more about our tee shots than the speed of the cyclist.
I'm not sure at what point I should mention the principal feature of the golf course, so I'll just do it now and get it out of the way. Golf course descriptions usually range from the lyrical " the flowers at Augusta National remind us all of poetry past and present yadida yadida yadida" to hyperbole that includes best, most, toughest, and meanest, but until now you haven't heard this phrase about your average, run-of-the-mill eighteen holer: The landing strip the runs through the center of the golf course can be used to good advantage. By landing your tee shot there, you can gain an additional fifty yards on the bounce. There is, of course, the danger of hitting the small planes that actually land there and as they all look like the planes used in drug runner movies, this may not be a fortunate circumstance. Pilots and passengers of these aircraft can seldom take a joke.
Apart from the soccer game skirting the eighth hole and the softball game in progress on the ninth fairway, there is not much more to tell. A quick post game Cerveza Panama was had by all, the caddies were paid and we were on our way.
The drive home lacked drama, which is how all drive homes should be unless, of course, like me, you make stuff up. ("Stuff up" is probaly not a great way to end a sentence unless you are cooking a turkey or giving an order, but I'm going with it anyway.)
Upon arriving at LJ's casa, we were greeted by his wife Bonnie who became in contention for wife-of-the -year, okay week, by presenting us with frozen margaritas and a pot of chili. Now, how good is that? I'll tell you how good as that. It almost made me forget my chip-in and the long putt I almost made on six.
Did I tell you about that putt? It was and uphill left to righter with a... Hey! come back here!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
